NO. 2

The first issue of Freudian Slip was the result of a 12th grade design project in the Winter of 2008. Produced in the shadow of three wildly talented peers with whom I shared a classroom space, it was definitely rough around the edges, but it was a start. While my intention was always to put out a second issue, and many others after that, I didn’t exactly anticipate taking six years to make that happen. Sorry about that. In the time between issues one and two, I moved to the city where I always knew I’d end up. I pulled too many all-nighters in the pursuit of a degree I didn’t even know existed in 2008. I’ve gone from the sixth floor to the second, down to the basement and settled on the tenth. There have been a few false starts and precipitous falls, but if you’re reading these words, whatever forces are out there have aligned to put Freudian Slip No. 2 out into the world.

What hasn’t changed in these six years is my constant pursuit of the stories of places and people (Yes, even people. Turns out, they’re not so bad). I hope to capture some of that pursuit in whatever this turns out to be. It’s still rough around the edges, but I can’t imagine anything less would be expected from something named after a slip of the tongue. Where my 16-year old self would have wanted to teach, right now I just want to take a bit of the unconcious and make it conscious. So, here goes nothing. I had a fantastic time putting this together, and I hope you enjoy it.

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• To my bike, for letting me see the city on the most beautiful level• To Michael Grant, for taking me to the places my bike can’t and for

humouring me with this whole thing for so many years• To Canmanie Ponnambalam, for her very timely and very kind

encouragement• To 49th Parallel and Lucky’s Doughnuts, for providing an office

and root beer float-flavoured motivation• To Tacofino, whose crispy chicken burritos fueled many of these

adventures

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WEST VANCOUVER

1. LIGHTHOUSE PARK 6 2. TOWER BEACH 10

3. SPANISH BANKS 12

4. BLACK MOUNTAIN 16

5. THIRD BEACH 18

6. LYNN CANYON 20

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VANCOUVER

WEST VANCOUVER

NORTH VANCOUVER

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LIGHTHOUSE

PARK

There aren’t a whole lot of places I remember distinctly because of their smell. The road to Hana in Maui is one; the Star Tours ride at Disneyland is another. Lighthouse Park takes a prime spot on that list. As I took a detour off the Shore Pine Trail on a side path that led sharply down to a small cove, I was surrounded by the combination of salty ocean and fragrant cedar, not so much a warm blanket as a damp and heavy one, but comforting all the same. It stirs something in my stomach; the same feeling of being backseat, windows down on the Pacific Rim Highway. It’s entirely exotic and entirely nostalgic. It’s a smell that I associate with a certain degree of wildness, unexpected in a place accessible by public transit. Yet that’s one of the things that makes Lighthouse Park so special: the tiniest slice of what this entire coast was like not even a century ago. That slice being tiny in historical scope, not in geographical footprint, of course. It’s entirely possible to spend an entire day (and then some) in the park, which I often find myself doing when in need of some head clearing. The paths are clear and frequented enough that my fear of going into treed places alone never truly takes over (although I tend to carry it with me everywhere). It’s a relief: I can take it slow, stopping when I’m out of breath instead of self-consciously continuing until I’m red in the face. I think it’s called relaxing.

There’s a scene in my favourite movie where someone on shore calls out to their friend in the water. That always struck me as silly, because the ocean is overwhelmingly loud, especially on a windy day. In tiny coves, that sound is amplified, rising up and bouncing off hard cliff faces. It comes from all sides on the smooth rocks that stretch out into the water to form a point. The roar is a good indication of how they got to be that way: pummeled by season after season of rough seas, a long-term display of the ocean’s destructive power.

Giant trees are tossed around like Lincoln Logs, the muffled clunk they make belying the bone-crushing force of impact. I walked out to where the point narrows, until I could feel spray on both shins. If I was looking for a place to clear my head, this was it. Any thought that dared enter my mind was hit with the roar, knocked over before it could get feet under it. That’s probably why I’ve always found so much comfort in the water. With my head above, there’s too much chaos to form thoughts. Head below, so quiet that all you can hear is your heartbeat and all you can think about is keeping it going. Even after I turned towards the trees and back onto the trail, the roar followed, dulled but present.

I always liked the idea of disappearing for a while. Not for long enough to get anyone worried, just for about the amount of time it takes to do all the trails in the park. Maybe it’s the result of growing up so close to the prairies. Everything’s so wide open; so exposed that your very presence feels like a blight on the landscape. Here, everything grows to such a scale that I could never imagine myself making much of an impact. I went down Valley of the Giants trail chasing this feeling of smallness. It’s tired and it’s cliché but it’s true: these gigantic, ancient things gave my troubles such insignificance that I didn’t even notice I wasn’t thinking about them. It’s all I could ask for on this particular trip to the park. I just wanted to breathe some fresh air and smell the ocean and remember why I dreamed about this place for years and why I scratch and claw my way by to stay. Sometimes the everyday clouds the magic of the coast, and sometimes I need my reminder. As I walked up Beacon Hill Lane and out of the park, whatever boy or comment or whatever it was that was troubling me was a little bit further away, kept at bay by the roar of the ocean and soothed by the smell of the sea coming through the window of the bus.

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TOW E R B E AC H

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TOW E R B E AC H

I’ve never been able to accurately count the stairs on Trail 4 to Tower Beach. A whole lot of that has to do with the state of semi-consciousness I’m usually in by the time I get to the top. Somewhere around stair 200, my counting turns wildly inaccurate with the different riser heights and depths throwing off my rhythm. There aren’t nearly as many as on Trails 5 and 6 (4’s more popular, nuder siblings), but still enough to make you wonder why the hell you came down here in the first place. If the sound of rocks rolling under waves and the all-day sun aren’t enough for you, the history should be enough to make the venture worthwhile. Located on unceded Musqueam territory (as all of Vancouver and its surroundings are on lands unceded by Coast Salish peoples), this spot was in use long before there were ever stairs to count. The tower in the name comes from the now crumbling and graffitied structures tucked just offshore, artifacts of the war in the Pacific. Just a few things to contemplate when you curse your burning legs and stop to catch your breath.

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The 6-kilometer ride that runs along the shore of Vancouver’s west side provides plenty of opportunities for distraction. Many never make it past the starting point of Kits Beach, as evidenced by the chaotic arrangement of bright umbrellas and blankets. If you do choose to continue westward, however, you will be handsomely rewarded. Weave your way through the crowds of sunbathers towards Point Grey Road. When the road was closed to car traffic, more than a few people called it a city-mandated gated community. However, the route is extremely well-used, with public access points and parks dotting the north side. Beginning at the foot of Trafalgar Street, keep your eyes peeled for the staircases to the shoreline, mostly tucked between homes. The beaches are rocky but there are more than enough pieces of large driftwood gathered along the retaining walls to spread a blanket out on. The parks are essentially large lawns, featuring maybe a tree, a bench or a viewing platform. What they lack in amenities, they more than make up for in quiet space to spread yourself out. Check for stairs here too, as they lead down to some of the most secluded, spectacular views of the city you’ll ever find. In the case that you don’t get drawn into any one of these spots, keep moving west. The road narrows into a separated lane, and finally turns into a dusty gravel path, which will very quickly coat your bike and legs with a gritty film. Here, the sprawling houses give way to tennis and sailing clubs, and then to Jericho Beach.

You’ll be able to wash it off soon enough. Past Jericho and through Locarno, the grassy parks on the left-hand side play host to gatherings of all sorts, filling the air with the thick smell of hot dogs on the grill. Keep your head up, you may have to dodge a rogue football or two. A detour around a concession stand and through some shady trees brings you to your destination. There’s no sign to let you know you’ve arrived, but if you notice a drastic change in the amount of beach to the north, you’re in the right place. At Spanish Banks, low tide can add hundreds of metres of exposed sand, making the cargo ships anchored in English Bay seem close enough to touch (they aren’t). The shallows draw the skimboarders, the better of whom can float across the water with effortless grace and elegance. The less experienced are always good for a decent wipeout. The uniformity of the logs and the lofted lifeguard chairs are the stuff of vintage postcards, wishing you were here. However, the best seats in the house are the driftwood chairs right off the path. Created by Brazilian artist Hugo Franca for the Vancouver Biennale, they are formally titled Public Furniture | Fallen Trees – Vancouver. Perfectly tailored for human lounging yet still looking like they emerged from a battering at sea in that very state, the sculptures cradle you in their gilded glow and smell of warm wood. Rinse your dust off at the shower, park your bike and crawl in, letting yourself be lulled to sleep by the sound of baseballs landing in gloves.

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MOUNTAIN

I’ve been sworn to secrecy about this place. In the interest of continuing to get rides to other cool places, I will uphold that promise. Here’s what I can share:

-The hike up is not very fun, especially for those that have to hear me complain about it.-The amount of bugs is directly related to the increase in altitude. -Bring your swimsuit.-This picture is what’s waiting at the top.

Just look it up. You didn’t hear it from me.

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T H I R D B E A C H

The way I see things, Third Beach is perfectly situated at the furthest point away from the city side of the park in either direction. By the time you reach the stretch of sand, most have either turned around or are intent on continuing the full way around. Maybe it’s selfish, but I don’t think it’s too outrageous to want your favourite places mostly to yourself. Leaving my bike (sort of) safely locked up at one of the many racks, I grab a log (in the shade, if it’s a lucky kind of day), ditch my shoes, peel off my top layer of clothes and walk on tip toes over the hot sand towards the water. The shore has a gentle slope, and allows for gradual immersion into the cool Pacific. The waves break evenly and predictably, and once you pass the point where the water jacks up and crumbles, the surface calms to a soothing roll. I’ve spent a lot of golden afternoons in this particular zone, submerged to my shoulders and letting my toes stretch out in front of me, watching the sun slowly turn everything from blue to orange.

Finally, when the temperature starts dropping and drying out between dips starts taking too long for comfort, it’s time to close the loop and make your way out of the park. If you can get the timing just right, you might be able to catch the last of the sun slip behind Bowen Island as you fly across the bridge.

I love riding the Stanley Park seawall. There’s absolutely nothing hidden, or secret, or underrated about it, but I think that’s for a reason. It’s a one-way route, starting at Lost Lagoon and curving around north and west towards English Bay. For an unskilled cyclist like me, it’s a dream: mostly flat, evenly paved and separated from the groups of sightseers that flock to the park’s more well-known spots every day. The 15km/h speed limit may feel glacial to those in a hurry, but this particular route demands a certain leisurely pace. It absolutely shines in the late afternoon in the summertime, when the sun has long since begun its descent towards the horizon. The constant onshore wind, which on cooler days can make you feel like your bike weighs three hundred pounds, is a welcome relief against the heat that radiates up from the pavement. The crowds that gather around the yacht club, Brockton Point and any concession stand quickly drop off, and nearly disappear by the time you pass underneath the Lions Gate Bridge. The path forms a thin interruption in the interface between the sheer cliff and the sea, and leads to the best part of the ride: the ocean swim at Third Beach.

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Both times I’ve been to Lynn Canyon Park in recent years, I’ve gotten lost. While I don’t bear full blame for this (the responsible parties know who they are), I pin partial culpability on the inability to see the ocean from within the park. Navigation in Vancouver is tremendously easy: water to the west, mountains to the north, figure it out from there. Take away those two landmarks, however, and I become acutely aware that my studies in geography didn’t actually include a class on how to use a map to find your way. What this does mean is that the city feels very far away. The area wasn’t spared as logging swept the north shore a century ago, but 100 years is plenty of time for trees to stretch high in the temperate rainforest. Even on the brightest days, sections of the trail network are blanketed in near-permanent shadows with only small dots of sunlight breaking through to the forest floor. For every opening view to the peaks on either side of the canyon or the creek that created it, the trail is just as soon swallowed up into dense undergrowth. The most striking example is the trip across the suspension bridge. The more understated sibling to that other north shore bridge, the span drops into the light allowed by the creek carving its way through the cedars. No matter which side you start on, the other end leads into thick, humid darkness.

A trip to see this bridge in December led to a vow to return in June, when the weather would be nice enough to spend an afternoon around the 30 Foot Pool. When the most beautiful June that anyone can remember finally rolled around, the 6-month old plan was shaken off and put into immediate action. While a 10km detour to the Third Debris Chute and back used up most of the sunshine the day had to offer, the promise of a swim in cool, clear water was too good to resist. Besides, we had waited a whole 180 days for this. The pool takes shape at the base of a waterfall, which narrows through a small gorge and finally spreads over a wide creek bed, with terraced

rocks providing perches to dry out on. After a fish sighting almost put a stop to the whole endeavor, I waded in.

30 Foot Pool lures you to its edges with turquoise waters meeting orange-tinged rocks, clarity that leaves any potential dangers fully exposed, and the promise of a waterfall only partially exposed from shore. It’s beautiful in the north west coast way of everything feeling a bit wild. That feeling changes when you hit the water. Entering 30 Foot Pool isn’t so much of a shock as it is a squeeze. Everything tightens, from the involuntary curl of toes to the compression of held breath in the lungs. The blood rush from arms and legs into the core leads to an inelegant, sloppy way of swimming, unbefitting of such an enchanting place. What differentiates the truly cold from run-of-the-mill chilly is the lack of improvement once you’ve been submerged for a few minutes. As any northern lake-dweller will tell you, after a few minutes, you “just get used to it”. However, in this particular body of water, on this particular day, there was nothing to get used to because the squeeze just kept getting tighter. A frantic paddle to the waterfall, an exclamation of “it’s so beautiful here” punctuated by chattering teeth and a clumsy breaststroke back to the shallows were all I could manage before I surrendered to my towel’s warm embrace. An attempt at drying out was quickly thwarted by the increasing frequency of raindrops. We quickly packed up, ambled up the steep and narrow staircase and fell into the heated car.

A fledgling set of traditions has emerged out of these trips to Lynn Canyon Park. Inevitably, we will go in the wrong direction, getting too wrapped up by the misty forest to realize we’ve been going astray for kilometers. Because the hike turns out longer than expected, a meal at the Tomahawk is required to replenish our caloric stores. Over eggs benedict with fingers still cold and wrinkled, we vow to get lost again in a few months.

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SUMMER 2015